


to think

by januarymay



Series: visions from somewhere in italy [4]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Call me by your name, M/M, Oliver - Freeform, Romance, Sad, changes, elio perlman - Freeform, hesitant, lots of shit about time, time sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 13:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarymay/pseuds/januarymay
Summary: elio reminisces on oliver, thinking, just thinking.





	to think

Oh, we wasted so much time. To think: you were there all along, for me to touch, to crave, to want, to have. You saw me from day one; you looked into me and read my soul like one of those books you caress every day with those fingers I so wish would dare to reach out and caress me. But each time, something got in our way, something pulled your fingers from my spine to the cover of another; you skimmed across me as if I was just another novel on my father’s shelf – consider the title; move on. 

If I close my eyes, I can hear the delicate flip of the pages you read so studiously in Heaven. Despite the classical music I played from headphones or sometimes from my guitar itself, I was so in tune with nature, with you, that the slightest movement coming from wherever you were was electric. I felt every page turn; felt it like a breeze blowing my hair away from my face. Felt it as if your fingers were pushing my fringe back for me, maybe carding through my locks to tilt my head upward and meet yours for a staggering, heart-wrenching, not-long-enough kiss because we were in Heaven, after all, but Heaven is not a private place, and anyone could’ve seen us. 

Whenever you read the passages that you wrote out loud, just for my ears to hear and for my young brain to ponder, I sometimes wondered if I’d ever be something you would write about. Maybe someday now, after Italy in 1983, you have a secret notebook or hidden pad like I used to. A little collection of papers that has my name scrawled on them illegibly. Maybe poems or passages that are too romantic to be shared with anyone face-to-face. I’d like to know if you think of me enough to write about me. Maybe I’m just a section in the book of your life that you never re-read or bother to skim through. Maybe I’m crossed out, torn out, x-ed out. Maybe my pages are well-worn, highlighted, annotated. What I would give to know how my chapter of your life looks.

Your chapter in my book is worn thin with love, with constant wear and tear. The pages are yellowed from the oils of my fingers, the angsty sweat of my brow, the tears of joy and pain. My mixed feelings swirl into one unfathomable mess, but one thing is clear through your chapter: I can’t get enough of it. The ending pierces my heart, I do not want to read forward into the next chapter, but life begs me to. Life begs me to turn the page and revisit you sometimes, but mostly it tells me to take another book off the wall. To find new literature. Somehow it hurts worse when I try.

We wasted so much time, Oliver, but would it have made your leaving any better if we would’ve made love in week one? My orgasm count would be higher; my experience points through the roof, but my heart would be no better, my tears would fall no less. The pages of you in my book of life would still be read thin, the black ink still streaked by reckless sobs that I am ashamed to admit cover me at times if I smell the overwhelming citrus of apricot or the sweet, salty sea air – sometimes the taste of your favorite dessert wine brings me to my knees, the taste surrounding my mouth, filling my nostrils, sliding down my throat, reminding me of nothing but you, everything about you. 

One can dream about going back in time, changing actions, but we both know that we would never change a thing because I was me and you were you and we were us and it still is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known or want to know. 

So, to think: if we had more time together then, would we still want that time now? I cannot answer these questions; despite you thinking I have all the answers and then some, I am still uneducated in things that matter. I do know, though, that I long for you more with every passing day, with every passing day I reread more of your section in my book, the pages of love becoming more dogeared the more my memory fades despite remembering it all. 

Elio. Oliver. Elio.

**Author's Note:**

> I just rewatched this film tonight and I had to write something about these characters again. I love these boys so much. Their story is very special.


End file.
